


The King, the Prince and his Lover

by tristaire



Category: Captive Prince - C. S. Pacat
Genre: M/M, Misunderstandings, Pet au, Slow Burn, pet!laurent
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-09
Updated: 2016-02-09
Packaged: 2018-05-19 10:12:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,794
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5963532
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tristaire/pseuds/tristaire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As part of the uneasy truce with Vere, Prince Damianos is compelled to make a visit to their court to further their alliance. The now King, the uncle of the man he killed, the brother of the King they went to war with, has other ideas and into Damen's path, Laurent is placed. He has to earn his keep as pet somehow now he's too old for the King to fuck, and seducing an enemy Prince  is a task he seems made for. Except that as he begins to know him, loyalties start to waver and Laurent quickly finds himself in a very dangerous position.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Matter of Trust

**Author's Note:**

> Pet!Laurent AU, set four years after the war with slightly warped ages.

Preface

The gold paint he wore flecked his cheek bones and brushed over his lips, rounding him, giving him the softened look of something to be tasted. And by contrast, the dark blue lining his eyes leant him keenness, a betrayal of some sharpness of nature. Laurent examined himself in the mirror. An acceptable image, he decided, to present to a prince. Intelligent and touchable. He wouldn’t lower himself to one of those vacant creatures he saw attached to Akielon lords, on the rare occasions they passed through the court of Vere. Relations had been tense since the war, to say the least. There had been a few diplomatic visits, which had mainly consisted of stiff bows, curt words and frankly embarrassing attempts at small talk. It was like court stilled for them, every stab in the back paused in action for a week or so until it could be done away from the judgemental eyes of Akielons. Laurent wondered idly how they could be so naively superior when their kingdom had only been united a generation ago; they had been stupid enough to assume loyalty rather than ensure it.

Now that was a mistake Vere was going to exploit to its fullest. 

With his golden hair, fair colouring, and devious mind, Laurent had made the perfect weapon: a poison disguised as sweets. And Damianos of Akielos, prince-killer and oblivious young man that he was, was going to swallow him whole.

He didn’t turn as the King entered. “The Prince arrives soon.”

“I’m aware,” he replied coolly. 

“You’re taking your time.”

“You would rather I looked like an unfinished whore?”

“I would rather you be a punctual one.”

He set down the brush, “I’m ready.” The king took his chin, turning his face to inspect him in his reflection, fingers pinching delicate skin as he stood too close behind him. His expressions were not easy to read, but Laurent had years of practice. He approved. 

“Stand to the side, away from me and do not speak until the formalities have been dealt with. Wait for him to approach you.”

“You talk as if I know nothing of manners.”

“I don’t trust you.”

“You wouldn’t have chosen me for such a task if you didn’t.”

“I chose you because you have the characteristics he likes. Are we to continue this petty exchange all night?”

“Perhaps the prince will wait.” Laurent didn’t smile. His expression was perfectly smooth, as if the sentiment were genuine, but he was satisfied. He was right. He was not the only blonde pet in Vere. Had the king wanted, he could have found someone more pliant, easier to control. But the trouble with those pets was that they were easy for anyone to control. This project needed as little interference as possible; Laurent was the only one with a proper grasp of what was at stake and the mind to be able to manage it. The king trusted him. Though in truth, he had very little to gain from betraying him. A seat beside a murderer or a barbarian bastard prince. How very appealing. Even the idea of having to touch one of them over the next few weeks repulsed him. But it was a sensation he brought rapidly under control; it was not as if he was unused to this. Though, it had been nearing two years since the King had touched him last, in anything more than a demeaning gesture. He wondered if he’d enjoy it. He doubted it.

Laurent rose gracefully. The dress was a bluing grey, made of thin almost transparent silks and hanging gently off his frame, leaving the tips of his pale collar bone and fine shoulders exposed. The king stopped him as he moved to leave and produced a long earring, a string of sapphires to match the theme. Laurent paused, glancing down. “Nicaise won’t like it.”

“You aren’t trying to fuck Nicaise.” He lifted it to Laurent’s ear and affixed it there. The movement was almost affectionate, as if he was fixing the collar of his bedraggled son. But there was neither warmth nor resistance from the boy he touched, only a quiet stillness, a submission. It was not as if he was unused to this.

When the act was finished, Laurent broke the silence, his tone carefully measured. “Let us go. The prince will be insulted if we are late.”


	2. The Art of Seduction is Different in Akielos

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“It’s a pleasure to meet all of Vere’s court,” he said carefully._   
>  _“And a pleasure for them to meet you, I’m sure.” Was that sarcasm? He – Laurent – was impossible to read._   
>  _He tried a safer question, something of a joke. “But not for you?”_   
>  _“I haven’t decided yet.”_
> 
>  
> 
> Damen isn't sure how pets are supposed to speak to Princes but he's fairly certain this is not it.

Damianos didn’t trust these people as far as he could throw them, though in fairness that was surprisingly far. Perhaps a better description would be that he didn’t trust these people as far as they could throw him. Which, from the look of the guards in Vere, was not very far. Everyone was lean here, as if their wish not to disrupt the streamlined aesthetic of the place had impeded their training. He reminded himself that they were probably much stronger than they looked. And besides, they didn’t need to be strong. There were hundreds of them and only dozens of their own guards, and if they did decide to attack they would get no warning. He still remembered how the armistice had ended. He still hadn’t forgiven them.

It was not just the issue of trust that made him uncomfortable in this place. Even without his plain clothing (not plain, functional, the nobility of Akielos wore functional clothing, expensive and well-made but functional), he stood out; they stood out. Their dark skin marked them as outsiders here, where nobility appeared to avoid the sun as if it was poisonous. At least his skin had stopped pricking at the colder climate on the journey. Their clothes weren’t built for Verecian winds. And them there was the decoration. It hurt his eyes. The intricacies, the repeating patterns, the rich colours and layers upon layers. In Akielos sculpture was the main form of art and designs were simple but beautiful and this by contrast was overwhelming to the senses. Everything about the place seemed to be made to oppose his tastes, as if they had called ahead and redecorated accordingly. He almost preferred it out in the wind. Only here two minutes and he couldn’t wait to leave. 

Deep in enemy territory. _Be strong saith my heart_ , he thought to himself darkly.

The councillor who had been sent out to greet him (an insult, but a minor one, that they were forced to walk through the palace to be met by the king, that he would not ride out to them), was explaining some of the history of the place as they followed him. This had not always been the home of Vere’s court; they had moved progressively northward over the centuries for various political and tactical reasons, as if Damianos had never picked up a book on the subject. Still, it would be considered impolite to point this out, and he had been warned against his impulsive speech and headstrong attitude before he left. Relations were still uneasy and holding his tongue did not come naturally to him. So while he spoke little, reserving his conversation for the king, Kastor talked a little less than amiably and a little shy of roughly with the councillor. Luckily, they were not given a full guided tour before being led to the hall where the King sat. 

Councillor Guion slipped behind the high and ornate doors to announce their arrival. Even his quiet footsteps echoed on the marble floors. A moment later the doors were drawn open for them. Damianos took point, striding into the centre of the room and the King did them the good grace of meeting them there. The bows they exchanged were coiled as if drawing back before a strike. Damianos’ breath was short. He was acutely aware of the small crowd of courtiers, nobles high enough to witness the private arrival of the Prince, and deep in the pit of his stomach he felt the unspoken death in the room. Four years ago, Prince Auguste would have been stood beside his father to greet them had such a peace existed then. Four years was not enough time for the sting of defeat to have disappeared and it showed in how the guards held themselves. The scar on Damianos’ shoulder twinged as if in recognition of the absence. As he drew up, he surveyed the room. A small gathering, the king at the centre, flanked by the Council of Vere, two to one side and three to the other, all clad tight in their impractical Verecian clothing like armour. Perhaps that was why it made him uncomfortable. Their Akielon clothes felt vulnerable in comparison. His eyes slid further and paused. 

The boy – man? Was he old enough to be considered such? On the cusp of it perhaps – was undoubtedly lovely, fine featured, slender and pale. One of the four out of the thirty or so gathered not to be clothed from toe to collar, to be jewelled. The light caught on the sapphires hanging from his ear, casting pretty blue shadows on the tiled floor. A sex worker. Of course in this ostentatious court they would lavish wealth on their slaves in the form of useless trinkets and fine flimsy fabrics, even if this one had certainly to be worth more than all he was wearing. He wondered if they could possibly wear such things in winter. Still, it was an appealing sight, he had to admit. Though perhaps that was the blonde hair. 

 

But there would be time to fully appreciate the beauty of the place later. For now, formalities still remained.

“Your Highness,” the King’s voice was surprisingly warm, not familiar but not the ice he had expected from the uncle of the man he killed.

“It is an honour to be here, Your Majesty.” It was not all that often he had to speak like this. The nations he visited the most often were close allies of Akielos, and men he considered friends and whilst he couldn’t speak entirely freely around them, he didn’t have to guard himself so closely.

“And an honour to welcome you. We’ve arranged a variety of amusements for your arrival which I hope you will find to your taste. Your bags will be taken to your rooms. Our lady Vannes will act as your guide for the coming days.”

“It will be my pleasure,” said the lady who stepped forward with a smile altogether too charming to be trusted. A noblewoman, one of the few Damianos noted, but not unsure of her position. She held herself with confidence. 

“If it pleases you, we may proceed directly to the Great Hall, I’m sure you are hungry after your travels.” This, apparently, was not the Great Hall and all these fake pleasantries were beginning to strain his patience. He had a whole night of them ahead. He resisted the urge to massage his temples.

-

The great hall was, in fact, both larger and more ornate than the room they had greeted him in, a feat Damianos would have suspected almost impossible. Mercifully, the torment was confined to a mere nine courses. He had to admit, suspicious as he was, the courtiers of Vere – or at least the ones who had been deemed prestigious enough to be invited to the banquet – were excellent conversationalists. Talk was quick and bounced between them easily, avoiding the awkward pauses he would have thought characteristic to dining with your enemies. No one had insulted him so far. Quite the contrary, everyone had been rather complimentary. He didn’t trust it. Partly because, entertaining though their wit was, he couldn’t shake the feeling that it was like watching dogs bearing their teeth at each other. All those hidden knives and that was just for their own. He thought he should sniff his food before eating. 

The King, he noted, was quiet. He offered amiable comments every so often, posed idle questions to Damianos when conversation lulled a little, but he did not seem to engage with the kind of play the other courtiers drew each other into. Still, he had a warm air about him as if he was fondly watching children squabble. He seemed to lack the sharp edges of his courtiers. Damianos was reminded that this was the king they had signed a truce with, the king who had been gracious in the face of such loss. The king who, unlike his elder brother, had kept his word. He respected him, even if he couldn’t feel at ease here. As Damianos watched him, the king settled back into his chair with his eyes following the servants who were now dimming the lanterns and lighting incense as the meal ended. There was something like eagerness to them now, as he was waiting for something to happen. Damianos’ frown was interrupted by Kastor’s voice tugging at his awareness. 

Damianos had not touched the wine. Kastor on the other hand, had swallowed every mouthful he had been handed, or so it seemed. He had been enjoying himself. “Damianos,” he had a smirk on his face, and his voice was low as he called his attention, “Someone’s been passing information,” he murmured in Akielon. It was like something switched on in the prince and he turned to face his brother. He hadn’t realised how much he had been lulled into an illusion of safety until all that carefully nurtured softness of mood and limb drained from him with those words. His muscles wound tight in an instant. And then Kastor inclined his head towards the side of the room, eyebrows raised slightly and lips still pulled wide. As Damianos turned to see what he had seen, his brother finished the sentence, “They’ve found one just your type.”

His eyes stopped on the man who stood at the end of the room, speaking in quiet tones with the musician who had been playing for their meal. The slave from earlier had reappeared, this time with the long blue dress gone, replaced by cloth of the same colour, wound tight around his body, ribbons curling around the white flesh of his thighs in pretty decorative patterns. The blonde hair was pulled back this time into a bun. Slowly, he breathed out the tension that had knotted his muscles in a matter of seconds. It was a beautiful view. “Perhaps you could request him in your bed tonight. He must be hot inside to be invited here,” Kastor said in his ear and Damianos felt heat flush down his chest to the pit of his stomach, as an image of his hands impatiently ripping at the thin fabric that covered the slave flashed for him. Kastor seemed pleased with the effect his words had had and sat back, still smirking, leaving his brother to watch as the slave stepped further into the light and attention was called to him. He was, apparently, to be the entertainment. 

Once the music started, it only took him a moment to realise why. A hush quickly fell, dampening conversation to a murmur as all eyes turned to him. The movement was slow to start, with the slave fallen back on his knees, eyes closed, swaying backwards just a little. And then the music hit and he was propelled upwards, holding the pose for a moment before collapsing to the floor, back arched. The movements that followed made the slave look like a marionette, spun through the air expertly, shows of skill followed by gentler displays, relaxed sways of his body, perfectly balanced to the music. A different type of admiration warmed Damianos now; this was the kind of display that took years of training to be capable of, that took dedication and practice. He could imagine him practicing, imagine him being told he was to perform for the visiting Prince. He wondered if he had put on similar displays for Patras or the Vaskians, or if this was his first time. Had he been nervous? If he had it did not show. 

Kastor leant over again. “If you don’t have him, I will.” Though blondes were not specifically his tastes, the novelty was not lost on him and even if he held a particular contempt for them, it was hard not to want this one when he moved like that. When his routine was done, he stepped to the side gracefully to allow another performer to take his place. There was no applause – it didn’t seem to be protocol – but something in the atmosphere broke when he moved away. Conversation that had slowed picked up again, but Damianos didn’t pay too much attention, still watching the slave as he paused to talk with the violinists. Even their music consisted of layers upon layers. The slave flashed a bright, charming smile and as he looked up over the musician’s shoulder, he caught him watching. He blinked, clearly surprised by the attention, dipping his thick gold lashes, and when he raised them again he held his gaze evenly, as if he was studying him and very suddenly Damianos felt back-footed. In Akielos, slaves would blush if a Prince looked at them, stutter, stumble, avert their eyes. This one did none of those things. The moment of vulnerability when he first caught his eye had passed and was replaced by something more engaged. It made Damianos prickle a little though he couldn’t say why. He turned back to Kastor.

Other performers followed him, but none captivated the room quite like the first. They were something to glance at during conversation, to watch lazily. It was not that they weren’t talented, but the main event had quite clearly passed. He wondered how long before he could retire to his slaves. He had been separated from them since arrival, when they were sent away with the other possessions to their quarters, and it seemed ridiculous but after all the pretence, all the work to keep his guard close, he wanted something simple. Something he knew. All these foreign customs were quickly becoming exhausting. It was just before he was about to excuse himself on pretext of fatigue from travel, that he caught sight of the slave again. Back in his dress, his hair was down and braided to frame his face and keep it from his eyes. He wondered how long was spent on remaking him into something untouchable after that dance. Kastor had engaged him while his attention was turned, intentions obvious for anyone to read. The poor boy looked a little like a rabbit caught in a trap. Gone was the confidence with which he had matched a Prince’s stare; Kastor’s advances had taken him by surprise apparently. He would end up in his bed by the end of the night, whether he wanted to or not. Damianos let out a breath and put thoughts of his chambers away, just for the moment, to intervene.

“Kastor, the guards called for you. One of your cases was misplaced.” It was not, technically speaking, a lie. Only it had happened several hours earlier and the case had been immediately recovered. But all the same, Damianos did not enjoy nor was he good at deception, and this technicality made a difference. The slave’s eyes became sharper when he looked at Damianos, his manner changing, holding himself a little straighter. Prince-killer. He reminded himself that Kastor did not have the reputation he had here. It was not inconceivable, young though he was, that he could have known Auguste. Perhaps he put him on edge. 

Kastor’s face changed, turning rapidly irritable. His brother had a temper on him and though he wasn’t unnecessarily cruel, he was, much to Damianos’ childish delight, far too easy to wind up. He made his apologies to the slave curtly and started off, muttering under his breath, to go find an already located belonging. The prince smiled at the slave with an easy manner. “I hope Kastor didn’t offend you.”

“No offence was taken, your highness,” his voice was cool. Not cold, not familiar, not reverently respectful, but how you might speak to a stranger you were uncertain of. Not afraid but uncertain, stepping carefully. He couldn’t quite resist the urge to attempt to show him he was not however they had painted him in the stories here.

“Your performance earlier was quite spectacular. You’re very talented.” 

“I’m glad I pleased you,” a sentence if said by an Akielon slave, it would have been something of humility, something of submission. Said by this slave, it was more like arrogance, as if to inform him that he hadn’t been performing for his benefit, that his pleasure was irrelevant.

Damianos frowned and tried once again, “Do you dance often for the court?” 

“Not often. Do you often excuse people from your brother’s charm?”

“I apologise-”

“You needn’t.”

Damianos paused. This was completely wrong. He felt he was barely following the exchange though it had only been a few words. 

The slave’s lip quirked ever so slightly as if he was amused by it. “It’s an honour to meet you, Prince.” It didn’t feel as if that was what he was saying, but it didn’t seem as if he disliked him either.

“What can I call you?” he asked, voice still gentle.

“Laurent.”

“Then it’s good to meet you, Laurent.” He offered a small smile which was only returned with a tilt of the head. 

“Is it?” It sounded as if there was a right answer to the question but for the life of him, Damianos could not think what it might be.

“It’s a pleasure to meet all of Vere’s court,” he said carefully.

“And a pleasure for them to meet you, I’m sure.” Was that sarcasm? He – Laurent – was impossible to read.

He tried a safer question, something of a joke. “But not for you?”

“I haven’t decided yet.” 

Fine, the prince thought. Damianos was not used to this, this challenging attitude, this difficulty in what should be easy conversation, and frankly he wasn’t in the mood to be talked down to by a bed slave of an enemy country. He straightened his back. “I’ve had a long journey today. If you will excuse me, I’m going to retire. I’m sure my brother can keep you entertained.”

Laurent was looking at him as if some rhythm he had expected had not quite clicked into place, but the look only lasted a second before it was replaced with something cooler. “You are excused.” As if he needed his permission to leave. Something about it itched under his skin. With the memory of that voice still burning in his mind, he made his way towards the King to ask his indulgence to leave. His slaves waited and sleep was not far off. He might survive this visit yet.


End file.
